Forget Me Not
by I.M. Elizabeth
Summary: The only reason Mello had bought the motorcycle in the first place was because it made him forget things.  Mello/OC


**Forget Me Not**

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own Death Note or any of it's respective characters and situations. However I do own Layla Levandi and the writing seen here. Please do not use them without my permission._

The only reason Mello had bought the motorcycle in the first place was because it made him forget things. Like so many decisions in Mello's life, the motorcycle was a spur of the moment idea. It came to him early one morning when Rod Ross of all people had been telling Mello about his early days in the mafia.

Mello hadn't really been listening, too busy lost in his own thoughts about catching the killer known as Kira. But after a moment, he began to listen to Rod's words, simply because there was nothing else to focus on, he'd exhausted his mind thinking about Kira.

Rod had been a little drunk at that point, probably high on something too with the way he was slurring and slumped next to Mello on that atrocious zebra print sofa.

"Always wanted to fly." Rod said suddenly, looking wistfully at Mello.

Mello turned and raised an eyebrow at the Mafia boss. "Fly?" he sneered.

"Yeah, you know, like a bird." Rod said, shaking his head.

Because Mello was young, it often warranted Rod to treat him as if he was just a simple child, something that vexed Mello to no end.

"I know what flying is!" he snapped.

Rod chuckled darkly, seeming amused by Mello's outburst.

"You need a car," Rod said, "Something to drive in, I can't take you everywhere you know. I have things to do."

But the thought of flight had inspired Mello and he pulled out a bar of chocolate, unwrapping it expertly with gloved fingers before biting off the corner of the candy with a flourish. The bittersweet taste flooded his mouth and he swallowed before speaking, "I want a motorcycle."

Rod laughed then, a loud booming noise that hurt Mello's ears. "What you want a motorcycle for? You're only sixteen years old, I doubt you could even get on the thing."

"Get me a motorcycle." Mello said again, quietly.

Rod raised an eyebrow, "Alright, if you say so Mello."

Later on in the day, Rod had returned with a Honda sport bike, dragging Mello outside to see it while he smoked cigars and prattled on about how Mello was fucking crazy for wanting it.

The black lacquer paint of the bike matched Mello's fondness for leather almost perfectly, and he had slid a gloved hand up and down the seat before nodding in approval.

"Trying to impress your little artist friend?"

Mello's eyes turned to glass then, and he stared harshly up at Rod.

Recently, the art aficionados of Los Angeles had been practically buzzing about a new art gallery, the gallery was said to be owned by a mere fifteen year old girl, a girl who called herself Linda, and who Mello knew as Layla.

Her paintings were ethereal, people said, like looking at a photo. She had given a single television interview, and that had been the first time Mello had seen her since he'd left Wammy's House.

She had in short, been the only person Mello had ever developed any kind of romantic interest in. He had taught her english at Wammy's himself, spending hours trying to correct her god awful Estonian accent that both displeased and enraptured him.

The realization that he loved her came sometimes in rapid heartbeats whenever she would touch his hand, or how she would lean in close to his cheek to hear him talk. Not that he ever let her know about his feelings, he kept himself aloof, at arms length, like he kept everyone else.

But when he had left Wammy's she had attempted to follow him. And he had kissed her, inexperienced and clumsy though it was. He had thought he'd never see her again.

So when she had appeared on the television, being interviewed by the local news and speaking in her incredibly thick accent, Mello had been infuriated by her audacity to follow him to Los Angeles, but the infuriation quickly turned to admiration when she had been asked to speak about what some considered her most striking painting.

It had been a closeup of blue eyes, and not just any blue eyes. Mello's eyes.

"What was your inspiration for this piece?" The interviewer had asked, holding out the microphone to Layla's lips.

She looked annoyed and gave a little huff, "Forget-me-nots." she'd said, "You know, the flower, they're blue."

And then he'd had to do it, had to go see the girl he tried so hard to forget in his life. Mello had snuck into her art gallery, hood up, sunglasses on, and had watched her. It was relieving to see her, see the child's body he remembered become womanly. Her hair was pulled up high in a messy bun and Mello watched slightly amused as she entertained high society in leather pants and a tank top. That had been enough, and he slipped away, trying again to forget the artist.

He'd bumped into Rod outside of gallery who was smoking a cigar in his Armani suit, towering over Mello with a simpering smile.

"You want her, don't you? The painter girl." he'd said.

And Mello had denied it, vehemently, but Rod saw through him like glass. He'd teased Mello relentlessly, all the way down the block and into the car while Mello just tried to forget.

But his first ride on that motorcycle had made him forget, and it became part of Mello's daily routine almost as addictive as chocolate. Any time he thought of Layla he got onto his motorcycle and forgot her, focusing instead on the purr of the engine underneath his thighs, the rush of wind and speed that he found almost as comforting as a human body next to him.

When he stopped at the local gas station for more chocolate, he couldn't help but notice a small forget-me-not, barely poking its head out of the crack in the sidewalk. And then Mello knows, he cannot run away forever, that he cannot force himself to forget forever. Hating his weakness, Mello lifted up his boot and crushed the flower.

He cannot forget forever.


End file.
